It’s been a while since I have worked on this 3×4 foot oil on masonite. This is just a portion of the actual painting. In the meantime, I continue to “work small,” which involves mostly scribbling in sketchbooks between the busyness of motherhood and work.

For a couple of years now, I have been asking myself the question “how can I share my story?” And also, “why do I want/need to tell my story?” Maybe not my whole story, but aspects of it. Like most people, I find autobiography and storytelling to be a powerful medium. It is healing, didactic and inspiring, to name but a few things. Those that have gone before me, act as Polaris in some of life’s darker moments. When we engage in storytelling or read an autobiography we learn that we are not alone in what we call the “human condition.” More importantly though, we learn that it is perfectly okay to be human.

I flew back to Vancouver for the birth of my new niece. It would be my sister’s fifth baby and I was excited to be her doula.

I was home, but only for five days. My Dad picked me up from the airport. He commented that “I was looking older” (gee, thanks). After catching up over brunch, my Dad dropped me off at my sister’s house.

I am sitting in quiet contemplation on this bright winter morning. Much has happened since I last wrote here, the biggest event being, M is weaned. I have been trying to summarize our breastfeeding journey for a while now. But how does one sum up three years and one month worth of words? Where do I begin? Do I write about the years or the phases? The ups and downs, or the effort and the ease of it all? Instead of writing right now, I will continue to process what these three years have meant to me, and simply leave you with one word. Bittersweet.